


Short and Sundry Stories

by undercat



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 5,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27923356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercat/pseuds/undercat
Summary: In which Elwing and Elros talk mortality, Celebrían sees her dead family, Yavanna enters Ea, Celebrimbor gives away a ring, Curufin and his wife discuss names, Arwen thinks of a way to help Frodo, and Míriel meets her son.New: Galadriel decides to face Sauron, Celebrían shares memories of her children, Annatar offers to serve Ar-Pharazôn, and Curufin’s wife expounds on her philosophy.Ratings and characters vary and are noted in chapter titles. Content warnings, if any, are in the notes.
Comments: 26
Kudos: 56





	1. Elwing and Elros [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: discussion of mortality.

“Why did you and father...”

“I chose for both of us, actually. Your father would have preferred then, I think, to leave the bounds of Arda with the Secondborn. I don't know if he still does. We were,” she looked rueful and – not exactly guilty but something not far from it - “we were both very tired, from despair and then from sudden, exhilarating relief.”

 _And very young_ , Elros thought, younger than he and Elrond had been.

She continued, “I chose for you. Well, not _you_ exactly, we didn't know... But I chose for Lúthien and Beren, and Huor and Rían, and Dírhaval and Aerdis and Hathol, and all the Edain your father and I have known or known of. We'll remember them- _you_ -” she paused and blinked rapidly; her voice had gone thick.

Elros didn't particularly want to see his mother cry. He'd last seen her as a young child, but she was still his _mother_. She had laughed and played with him and Elrond, and if she ever wept in Sirion, she had hidden it from them.

But he knew not how to soothe her, or if he should. He grinned instead. “And I shall remember you!, and beyond the bounds of Arda, as within, we shall both live in each others’ hearts. Me and mine shall keep alive all of the Eldar we have known, as you shall us, and in our memories never part.”

She smiled back, a bit tremulous, and grasped his hand. “It didn't seem right – the Valar have forbidden the West to Men. Someone should speak for our mortal kin in the undying lands, and I didn't know who else it could be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.


	2. Celebrían and Finarfin [G]

Some days later Celebrían went to the room with the portraits and stood before them, studying. A large painting had pride of place, the picture of a family. Finarfin was in it, and six others. A dark-haired man stood next to a woman with gold hair and Finarfin's look, leaning into her embrace; she supposed them to be Finwe and Indis. There was another gold-haired woman (Findis? Lalwen?) and three others with black hair, very similar in countenance. One had her dear, dead cousin's face but with Tree-lit eyes: he must be Feanor, then, which meant the other man would be Fingolfin. The painting was strange to look upon. Her family, and yet not.

She heard footsteps behind her and spun around sharply. Her heart pounded, sudden fear in her veins. Yet it was just Finarfin, and after a moment she made herself smile at him.

He came up to stand beside her. “My parents,” he said, pointing at the couple in the middle. “And my brother Fingolfin and my sisters Lalwen and Findis.” He gestured to each as he spoke; Findis was the one with dark hair. “And my half-brother.”

There was something strange in his voice that Celebrían could not decipher. She said, “I thought him to be Feanor. He bears a remarkable resemblance to my cousin Celebrimbor.” That familiar grief was old, and dulled, and still in her heart. “The others I just guessed at – aside from you, of course.”

Finarfin looked at her, his face unreadable, then sighed. “You have a rather large family, and not just through me.”

Celebrían frowned a bit. Her parents mourned at times for the loss of their kin, but Celebrían had never felt the lack. Still... she looked around the room. The only person pictured here that she had known before was her mother. Suddenly she marveled at how many faces there were, and this only Finarfin's family, not Earwen's or her father's.

 _I only knew three of my cousins_ , she thought, _and none of them hang on this wall. Neither do I._ There must be three dozen people here, and most were dead, and she had never met them. It was a queer thought: it didn't hurt her, but quite suddenly she felt it to be a loss.

There was another portrait nearby, of four people with golden hair. She recognized her mother and Finrod both; the others must be Aegnor and Angrod - she knew not which was which, and neither had any of Ereinion in their look. Tears prickled her eyes to see her mother's face. Her mother (not Galadriel yet; she would have been Artanis then) looked young and proud, untouched by the world, and so very familiar.

Celebrían looked at Finarfin ( _my grandfather_ , she thought with some wonder; she had never known a grandparent) who was staring at the same painting as she: his children, two dead and one long departed. She had seen the look on his face before – it was her mother's too - and Celebrían ached.

“How many of those depicted here have returned?” she asked.

His face had a certain stillness to it. “From Hekeldamar? Finrod and Turgon's Idril only. I never left, nor my wife and sisters-in-law, nor my mother or sister Findis. Save for Finrod, they all come to Tirion but rarely.”

“I grieve with you,” she said. And she did – not as Finarfin, for what had been had lost, but for what might have been.

He sighed, and lifted his arm as if to hold her, then paused. “May I?” he asked.

She froze and then nodded. She forced herself to not flinch away when he laid his arm over her shoulder. She could not decide if it were comforting or not, but made herself relax.

“Ara-” Celebrían paused, thought, and continued, “Grandfather, will you show me everyone?”

Finarfin's eyes were bright, but he nodded. She let him lead her around the room, and listened as he told her of her mother's kin; and he too listened as she spoke of her own family, those she loved, everyone now parted from them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr; part of a longer work that may or may not see the light of the internet.
> 
> Hekeldamar - Beleriand. Lit., “forsaken-elf-home”


	3. Yavanna [G]

She was not one of the first to join herself to That Which Had Been Outpoured, which in later years would be called Ea, when such a thing as words came into being. Its vast dark expanses did not call to her, not as they did to the Mighty One her brother, or her also-Mighty sister, who gathered dust from cold clouds and spun it together, tighter and tighter, till brilliant light blazed forth. The light was beautiful, and she wondered to see, and raised her voice in praise, but it was simple, and she did not want to join in. That which would become she of Life was part of the sounding chorus, but she did not have a voice of her own yet, for it was later that she came into self. Not into existence, not into being, for she had existed before, she had been before, but later it was that she became a person.

It was not till the first of her sister's children died in glory and gave to the universe dust of many different forms that she considered what else could be wrought. And perhaps something called to her then, for out of the throes of their destruction came dust, and things of more complex forms. Her brother, the one who was her other self, her only counterpart, watched beside her. They watched, and saw how the slow stately dances of their sister and the destruction wrought by their brother brought dust together, and tore it apart. It was then that her brother-partner-otherself began his own theme, but she had not yet become she and had nothing to offer but praise.

From the spinning particles, he the one of chemistry and forming, her brother, made new things. He brought forth the rock, the pebble, the grain of sand, and the Mighty One brought them to touch with great force and heat, and their starry sister made the spinning rocks and gas grow with her in-bringing force.

Other parts of the chorus left then, taking on motifs and voices of their own. One sang of the whirling air currents of the fast-turning planet. The other sang of crushing depths and battering waves, flowing water. But she did not yet awaken.

And then the one of rock and chemistry held out something to the chorus: _complexity_ , and she saw what could be made from his minerals and elements.

She became she and she sang of change and reactions, and her voice was full of trilling high notes and deep bass all at once, of growing and eating and changing shape, and she created Life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally the beginning of a Yavanna/Aule fic - the interplay of geology and biology is fascinating!


	4. Celebrimbor and Sauron [M]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: torture

“It hurts, Annatar, _please_ , make it stop.” He was begging again. He was so _sick_ of begging, even if it made a change from screaming.

“Celeb _rim_ bor,” Annatar said. He sounded annoyed, and Celebrimbor cringed. “'Please’ isn’t going to help you.” He started to slide the knife under his skin again.

He had to- he couldn’t- _no, no more, not now_. There was one Ring that was safe to give up: Annatar would never gain entrance to Khazad-dûm, not with the Doors. And if he… if he told him, Annatar would think this torment was working; maybe it would keep him in this city. (It was a lie, and he knew it: he wanted the pain to stop, for just a small while. He needed it to _stop_ ; it had to, he had to…)

“Durin,” he whispered.

Annatar pulled the knife back, didn’t set it down.

“Go on,” he said.

Celebrimbor glanced at the blade, wet and red. “I gave one of the Seven to Durin.”

He put down the knife; Celebrimbor sobbed with relief.

“Oh, _Tyelpe_!” Annatar exclaimed, and pressed a quick kiss to his bitten, bloodied mouth; his eyes were bright and excited, and Celebrimbor hated himself that even now something in him was proud to be the cause. “That was well done; you’ve done so well. Shh, let’s rest a little while; you need it.”

With a gesture, the chains holding him up gave way and Annatar took him in his arms, pulled him into his lap. Celebrimbor curled up in the warm embrace and thought about biting off his tongue.

“My dearest,” Sauron murmured into his hair, soft and pleased, “isn’t this better? Sleep now: we only have six and three more to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.


	5. Curufin and Curufin's Wife [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: pregnancy

Súlind grimaced, uncomfortable, and rearranged herself on the divan. Curufin glanced up from where he was massaging her feet, concern on his face.

“Don't fuss overmuch,” she told him and patted her swollen belly. “It won't be long now.”

Curufin's face fell into full worry, and Súlind rolled her eyes. “Don't fuss,” she told him again. “I'll be fine; he'll be fine. We will all be so well.”

He answered with his sweet smile: she loved it so well, all the more for its rarity.

“I rather like your people's custom of both parents giving their child a name,” Súlind said thoughtfully after a long moment. “I should like us to follow it.” She glanced at her husband. They had mutually agreed to raise the son that would be given them with full awareness of both their cultures, and to speak Quenya and Sindarin both to him, but it had been a fraught conversation, a relic of their earlier, tempestuous arguments over the supposed superiority of the Noldor. She had mostly convinced Curufin of the worth of her people (he had, wisely, known her own worth from their first meeting), and it amused her to see how readily he now treated the Dwarves with respect and friendship, despite the ugliness of their forms.

“I had no intention of doing otherwise,” said Curufin. “How boring to give just one.”

Súlind laughed. “Fair enough. I suppose you want to call him _Curufinwe_. Or even _Nelyacurufinwe_.”

Curufin made a face. “Too many syllables,” he said, “there's a reason we all stick to no more than four. And he's not the third _anything_.”

“Plain _Curufinwe_ then?

“I had thought to name him after your brother Borophor,” said Curufin. “ _Curubor_ would be a fine name.”

She smiled at that. Curufin and her brother did not particularly like each other – her husband's sharpness too easily overpowered her brother's soft speech – so she was well pleased to hear that Curufin wanted to honor Borophor thus and wondered which of them her son would take after. Still:

“I'm not sure it sounds as fine in Quenya,” she said. “ _Curuquare_? It lacks a certain grace of speech, and I want something that fits both languages.”

Curufin sat up. “I had thought one name in Quenya and one in Sindarin, to please us both.”

Súlind hummed, reaching out her mind to that of the child inside her. His spirit leapt in response. How amazing it had been to feel it change over her pregnancy: at conception it had been dim and flickering, a life and nothing more, with no awareness or self, but it had gradually formed, steadying itself against the touch of her spirit and Curufin's, taking shape. She longed to see how her son's spirit would change when he opened his eyes for the first time and saw the world. _We'll give you everything_ , she told him. _We'll give you the world,_ _and all its splendor and mystery_.

She felt Curufin's mind join her and their as-yet-unnamed son, and their son answered, wordless and knowing, with a quickness to his unthoughts.

“Like silver,” Curufin mused. “Do you remember when the moon first arose and cast his gaze upon the waters, bringing light to the foam atop the waves?”

She had not seen quite the same sight as him - Súlind had been in Brithombar and not Lake Mithrim then - but she remembered well how the moon had lit the sea. The blazing silvery light had been painful to her dark-accustomed eyes and mind both, and had come with such a searing insight: _this is the world,_ she had thought as she laughed aloud with glee.

“I do remember,” she answered. “It was so bright as to hurt my eyes, but I had never seen anything so lovely. It quickened my pulse, like when disconnected observations crystallize into insight, a proof, a map, a slippery equation balancing, sudden knowledge coming into being. It was that perfect moment when everything becomes clear: 'oh, so _this_ is how it works.'” She paused, thoughtful. “Making our son felt like that too.”

His eyes were full of love when he looked at her. “Celebrimbor then. For his uncle, and for that silvery insight. And a fair name in Quenya too.”

“Oh,” she said, “How I love that! And I already have a name for him too: Curufinwe!”

“Is that wise?” Curufin asked after a moment of silence. In his mind she felt, distantly, the echo of ashes falling from a hand. But she had no care for what may or may not be premonitions.

“Yes,” she answered, quite sure. “I would honor both our families, and don't argue with a mother's knowledge of her child! He will make great things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Súlind is the name I use for Curufin's wife, in this conception a woman of the Falathrim whom he met in Beleriand.
> 
> Borophor is an OC, Celebrimbor's maternal uncle. The name means "steadfast-fist/grasp" and shares the _paur_ element with Celebrimbor; Elven names seem to have often used familial elements.
> 
> I have gone with the common fanon of Celebrimbor being the third Curufinwe. Look, Elves aren't creative with names!


	6. Arwen [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild references to Frodo's depression and PTSD.

Arwen left Frodo with great trouble in her mind. They had spoken of light things and laughed, but she had glimpsed the hurt in his heart.

She did not have the power to heal him. She had seen his wounds and knew with certainty that not even her father could heal him, and she had not Elrond's mighty gifts. But perhaps she could help, for there was a thought in her mind: Arwen's own mother too had been wounded in soul and had sailed from these shores. It was said that the West held great healing, that the very land was a balm to the wounded in spirit. Aman was forbidden to mortals, but she might see Frodo sent there. She was no Lúthien, to command the gods, but it was a smaller thing she wanted, and Mithrandir kinder than Mandos. She must ask him. Till then there was some small thing she could do for Frodo.

Arwen was no healer, but she was a craftswoman, wise in the deep arts of the Eldar, such as had been remembered from the lost days of old. She had been taught by her mother, who had learned from Celebrimbor and Enerdhil and the vanquished Enemy, and by her grandmother, who had learned from Aule and Yavanna and Melian. She knew how to bind power and Song into matter, knew how to make jewels that would give light to the eye and soul both, that would bring some measure of comfort to the beaten in spirit.

A new stone would be best, but there were no furnaces in Minas Tirith hot enough to grow a gemstone, none that could compress carbon, and even if there were, she did not have the elements she would need. Estel had offered to have a forge built for her, but Arwen had, with some regret, told him no. It would see little use, or none at all. Two of her looms were currently on the road from Imladris, as were her tools for glassblowing, but her heart knew that she would not use them again for any great works: she would not have the _time_. Even now, her days were consumed by meeting her future subjects and planning for her wedding, and she was not even yet Queen. It was strange, being constrained by the hours. She understood now why mortals were so rushed, and Frodo... she did not know how long he would last: his pain lay under the surface of his mind, but it ran deep.

But though she could not make a new gem here, there were some she might repurpose.

The banner she had sewn for Estel hung in his throne room; she asked that it be taken down and brought to her chambers. She smiled to see it: she had woven it with great love in her hands and heart, a gift for her beloved to bring into battle. There were the usual minor enchantments laid upon it, such as would be laid on any fabric made by the Eldar: it would not stain nor wrinkle; it would flutter even in calm air and lay still in strong wind; it would not fatigue the bearer to hold it. But Arwen had also sung into the fabric spells of unflagging courage and strength against the dark, and into its white stones had set a power to block the foul art of the enemy from setting fear in the hearts of those who fought under it, who fought for estel and her Estel both.

She laid the fabric on the floor in full sunlight and looked at the jewels with eye and mind both, searching for - ah yes, that one might do. She remembered its making: _hope_ , she had told it, and _the promise of peace_. It was also one of the larger stones: useful, for she would have to recut the jewel, and carefully, for it wasn't _that_ large. She snipped it off the fabric, slid it in a pocket, and drifted through the rest of the day, pondering geometry and in what order she must cut the facets; and pondering too what she could do for Frodo, who had given all, given more than he had, and whom she liked so much.

~~~

Several days after her wedding, Arwen sought out Mithrandir. “Wizard,” she said, “Ringbearer, Holy One, I must speak of Frodo, for my heart tells me that he has been sorely wounded and is in need of great healing.”

They spoke for some time and when Arwen left him, there was a great lightness within her, for Mithrandir had heard her words and accepted her plea.

She went to find Estel, who looked at her with joy in his eyes and on his face; how overfull her heart was! She smiled back at him – ai, but she could never not smile at him.

“Beloved,” she said, and took his hand. “We must speak to Frodo ere he departs, for I have gifts to give him.”

~~~

_And she took a white gem like a star that lay upon her breast hanging upon a silver chain, and she set the chain about Frodo's neck. 'When the memory of the fear and the darkness troubles you,' she said, 'this will bring you aid.'_


	7. Míriel and Feanor [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Past major character death. Weird Elven attitudes towards fetal development. Pretentious use of names.

After death and life and death again, Míriel’s son came to her where she sat with Vaire in the Halls of the Dead.

She felt in his ashy soul anger and grief, and beneath everything the blind panic of a child that thought itself lost, buried deep in his soul. A part of her wanted to weep. A part of her felt nothing but pride.

“Mother?”

“Fayanáro my son. My child, my blazing fire, how bright you shine!”

“Mother...” he said, then so faint that had her spirit not rendered her body luminous she would not have been able to hear: _why did you leave me why did I kill you what was wrong with me that you died rather than stay with me?_

She sat still for a while. Only her hands moved on the loom, as fast as a flittering flame.

“My dear one,” Fíriel said. “My dearest, I love nothing and no one more than you. You are my son and my greatest work, the culmination of my craft. I would have stayed had I been able. But I had no breathe left for myself, for I gave it all to you.

“I weep that you came to grief, beloved, as I wept that I had to leave you. But I would die again to bring you into being. Perhaps the world would have less sorrow and evil had I made you weaker and lived, but it would not have been as beautiful. You are my Great Work, O Spirit of Fire, and I would be no artist had I shied away from giving to my art all that I could. You understand, you my child: you gave your soul to the works of your hand. But the Silmarilli are no fairer than their creator.

“Curufinwe Fayanáro, gods and elves alike name you the greatest of the Ñoldor, the greatest of all the Quendi. It is I who made you, I who sculpted you. I saw you when you slept in my womb and I gave myself to the forming of you. If I had done less, I would not have remained the artist I am: you are of my making. No one has ever equaled _my_ craft.”

“I understand,” he answered. “My mother, my maker.” And saying that something in Feanáro gave way, and something else was lifted from him, and he inclined himself towards her. Míriel enfolded herself around her son, and they sat together for a long time, lit by a fierce warmth.

“Mother,” Feanáro said at length. “Alone of the crafts of the Ñoldor I gave no study to needlework. I could not bear to surpass you; I could not bear to not surpass you. But I am dead, and here now...”

“Then let me teach you,” said Therinde to her son. “And together we shall weave the tales of history."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fíriel is another name of Míriel's, given after her death and meaning 'she who sighed, she who breathed out.'
> 
> Fayanáro is the archaic Quenya form of Feanáro, which was arguably the form used when Míriel died.


	8. Galadriel and Celebrimbor [T]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-divergence.

Galadriel's eyes were cool and merciless, and in them shone the light of the Two Trees; she would not let him hide anything from her. “You installed the Enemy in our own city, and you let him drive me forth from it. You taught him all the secret arts of the Eldar, that we kept even from Morgoth in Tirion; you gave him the hidden lore that he will use to rule us. You have finally surpassed your grandfather, Celebrimbor son of Curufin: even your father, who betrayed my brother to his death, would quail at you.”

On his knees before her, her cousin squeezed his eyes shut.

“I know, I _know_ ,” said he miserably, and collapsed further into the ground. “Galadriel, tell me what to _do_.”

She hissed. “I won't give you absolution.”

“No one can,” he answered, “but I can give you this.”

He held out a ring to her, and she took it.

“Nenya,” said the Ringmaker, and even now she could see his great pride, “the Ring of Adamant, made by my hand alone, and untouched by Gorthaur’s malice. I ask that you keep it from him, and guard it well. It has great power, and while it desires only good, Gorthaur will corrupt it if he takes it, and with it all that it can do.”

“A mighty gift,” she said. Holding it now, she saw he had spoken truth, and slid Nenya onto her finger. The world sharpened.

“You can’t use that, cousin,” said Celebrimbor, “not while Gorthaur wears his.”

“I know,” Galadriel said, and did not take it off her hand. It shone with a pale bright light. “I won’t use it, not till the time is right to attack.”

“It’s not a _weapon_ ; I didn’t make my Three to _injure_.”

It had not been made as a weapon, she saw, but it could serve as one; in the Ring was a great Power, more worthy of coveting than Silmarils.

She could feel Nenya’s might flow through her. It was a living thing, adamantine force, crystalline clarity, a light unbent-unbroken-unscattered, implacable as ice, merciless and compassionate as the sea, sweet as cool water on a thirsty tongue, succoring as gentle rain on a parched field. She could change the world with this, guide the seasons to her will, stop the inevitable decay of time.

“It won’t be a weapon,” Galadriel said, “until I need it to be, when I face the master of the One.”

“You think you can _defeat_ him?” Celebrimbor’s eyes were wild.

“What choice do we have now but to defeat him?”

“We can’t,” Celebrimbor said miserably. “What he and I made together, what we learned… I fear that Morgoth’s lieutenant is scarce less mighty than the Enemy himself now.”

“He has been defeated before,” said Galadriel, “by a dog and a girl.”

“By a Hound of Orome, and the daughter of a goddess.” Celebrimbor looked into her eyes. “And not by Finrod.”

“My brother,” she said, “he whom you failed to help, he whom your father betrayed.”

“I may have, but many failed Finrod, your nephew not least among them. And others too, perhaps.”

She took a sharp breath, and remembered how she had seen Finrod’s ring on Beren’s hand and yet spoken not a word to help Lúthien.

“Cousin,” he said, “I cannot defeat Gorthaur, but I know him, and if I face him I know I can delay him.”

Her brother, it was said, had fallen before his throne. Would she have been able to save him?

“No,” she said. “I won't let you.”

Celebrimbor was already shaking his head, and when he spoke his voice was unsteady. “I have to. It's my fault, and I... If I run, I'll put anyone around me in danger, but if I face him... I could buy you some time, time to prepare, to see our people safe. I do know him; I can delay him.”

Her cousin was sick with fear, she saw, and she had no more faith. “And risk giving him more of what he wants? You've fallen under his sway before; will you betray us again? No, I don’t trust you not to ride forth by his side, at the head of his trampling armies.”

He winced, and she took some mean pleasure in it.

“I know, I _know_ ,” he said, “I’m so _sorry_ , for everything.”

Galadriel had no absolution to offer, but she would not abandon him, nor the world.

“Finrod was my brother,” she said, “and I was in Doriath when Lúthien brought Beren to meet her parents. I saw Finrod's ring on his finger, and I didn't do a thing. I knew not that he swore an Oath, but knew he would become part of their story. I still wonder – if I had acted, could I have saved him?” At least Celebrimbor hadn't been foolish enough to swear an Oaths: what had Finrod been _thinking_?

“I’ve never bound myself by any Oath,” said Celebrimbor, catching the last of her thoughts. “Whatever else I might be, I’m not _stupid_. But I am no less bound by responsibility - I will not run. I let Gorthaur in; the least I can do is to sacrifice myself for your aid, trade my death for some time.”

“You think that’s _enough_ , that dying in torment by Gorthaur’s hand will make things _right_? No, I will not allow you to face him, not alone.”

He was shaking his head again, but she, implacable, continued before he could speak, “You say you can't run? Fine. I'll stand with you, and we'll face him together.”

There was abject horror in his face. “You can’t, you _can’t_ ; the fault is mine; I forbid you.”

“You would _forbid_ me?” Galadriel cried, now no less overwrought. “Do you think so little of me, that I would see another person I love walk into the clutches of Gorthaur, watch another person I love die at his hand!”

“I won’t let you…” Celebrimbor started to say again, but in the end he was no match for Galadriel’s will. She would see Gorthaur bent before it too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorthaur - Sauron. As for why Galadriel and Celebrimbor are using it, I tend to think that it would have been the main name used among the Eldar in Middle-Earth, who spoke Sindarin as their primary language, up until the War of the Elves and Sauron when the Quenya-speaking Númenóreans entered the scene.


	9. Celebrían and Elwing [G]

Celebrían looked at the woman sitting across from her. Elwing was her kinswoman in many ways (and once more Celebrían rather grumpily wished those lines on the genealogy charts less convoluted), but above that, she was the mother of Celebrían’s husband.

Elrond did not speak much of his early life, and the tales he told started with the establishment of Lindon. He spoke at times of Elros, a leader of mortals, but like all who had lived through it he rarely spoke of the War of Wrath, and spoke less of his childhood.

But she knew Elrond loved his mother, dearly, for all that he had known her only when he was a young child. The first time Celebrían was pregnant, they had sat alone and he had told her of Elwing, of how he treasured the memory of her laugh, the little games she shared with him and his brother, how they would play on the sandy beaches of Sirion. Elrond had then insisted on having a little garden of sand installed in Imladris, with a small fountain and a flowing stream, and their young family had spent many happy hours there.

Celebrían told Elwing this, gently touching her mind to show her Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen as children, building castles in the sand with their father.

Elrohir in particular treasured their little garden, and after Arwen was grown he would spend days at a time tracing careful, intricate designs in the sand. Celebrían made colored sand for him, and sand of silver and gold, and sand of tiny sparkling gems that flashed rainbows in the light, and at times she would sit nearby as he worked. She never understood why he spent so much time on things that would last only until the wind or rain came to erase his art, for Celebrían wrought her own creations in metal and jewels, enspelled to remain new for all the ages of Arda, but she was happy to watch her son at his work. 

She recalled her children in her mind's eye, and showed Elwing Elrohir's sand art, and Elladan baking pastries, and Arwen at her loom. Perhaps later she would speak of her sons’ courage in battle and Arwen’s implacable will, but it was the sweet, simple memories that she shared with their grandmother now.

(“She was just 'Mother' to me,” Elrond had said to her once as they stood looking over their sleeping boys. “It was not till much later that I realized how strong and brave she was, and how terrified she must have been. Ruling a city so young, her husband away seeking desperately for aid, both knowing how Turgon's sailors had drowned, knowing that Morgoth and the Doom and the Oath were all looming. And yet she gave us such a happy childhood, my brother and me, till the Kinslaying. We never lacked for love nor laughter.”)

Celebrían sank back into the present and brought her mind to focus on what her eyes saw, not what they remembered. Elwing looked like Elrond, but Celebrían's children she saw in her too: the quick jerky hand gestures were Elladan’s, the way she had paced earlier while thinking was Elrohir, and the imperious tilt of her chin Arwen.

But now Elwing was blinking back tears like stars from her eyes. When their minds had touched, Celebrían had felt something greedy and painful and sharp, a longing tinged with rage and joy and love all.

“I wish I had seen my children grow; I wish too I had seen yours. But for this… Thank you,” said Elwing thickly, and she smiled.


	10. Sauron and Ar-Pharazôn [G]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon-divergence (or not).

They brought him, guarded, to the tent of the king, but when they forced him inside, Annatar fell to his knees of his own accord.

“Annatar of Eregion,” Pharazôn said, contempt in his voice, “he who claims to be a god, made a servant by the Elf-lord of Hollin.”

“I am a god,” said Annatar softly, pushing away the flash of scorn that Pharazôn thought it servitude which bound Annatar to that Elf-lord, “come to bring the blessings of Aman to this land. But I have erred in lingering amongst the Elves, I see, for had I known their lands would fall to the might of Westernesse I would have sought better service. If you have it, I should be Annatar of Anadûnê.”

Pharazôn paused. “What would Annatar the god offer us that we don’t already possess?”

Annatar smiled at the man. “Why, I offer you myself. You envy the Elves? You ought to envy the gods: I am one and I can teach you our secrets, for I have seen now that your people are the more deserving.”

Pharazôn scoffed. “What secrets?”

“Those of immortal life,” Annatar said, and was pleased to see the greedy spark in Pharazôn's eyes.


	11. Curufin and Curufin's not-yet wife [G]

“I am beginning to think,” said Súlind, “that Thingol’s witch of a queen is correct, that the people she rules are correct – what does the West have now that we do not? That light in your eyes, oh my flame-eyed friend, comes from Trees now dead, and you yourself say that your people learned all that the Rodyn would teach you – why, with your knowledge meeting ours, we already surpass the lore of that home you fled.”

Curufin opened his mouth to speak, but she continued over him.

“You can’t go back, can you? The Rodyn won’t let you back: even my lord Círdan is forbidden, and he calls himself the friend of Guiar. So Curufinu,” - and she took his hand - “once we throw down Morgoth, let us make _this_ land a paradise that _they_ will beg to visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr.
> 
> _Curufinu_ – what _Curufinwe_ would become in the Falathrim and Doriathrim dialects; it comes out Curufin because that’s what it is in the Sindarin of the North. (Súlind is Falathren.)
> 
> _Rodyn_ – Valar
> 
> _Guair_ – Ulmo


End file.
